No Laughing Matter
by kake1
Summary: Stan and Kyle are taking a test, but Stan's making that difficult for the both of them.


"Stop!"

"I'm not even doing anything, dude."

"Stan, stop!"

Friday, last period; this meant a quiz in their Algebra II class, their least favorite class, with the strictest teacher. Her name was Mrs. Crabbe, but Stan made it a habit to accidentally call her 'Mrs. Crabapple,' something she did not find funny nor witty, like the rest of the class did. The quiz was on factoring and foiling, and Stan understood not one part of it; Kyle seemed to be having issues with distributing a square root to an 'imaginary' number and the number being square rooted. Stan had wondered for fifteen minutes why they named it an imaginary number. It was real enough to him, written blatantly on the paper, obviously there like an ugly pimple (like the one that was on Clyde's nose earlier).

It was just then Stan had decided he was bored enough to poke at Kyle with the end of his pencil, jabbing his forearm from across the tables they were seated at. Stan faced the window, and got a good view of the buses as they came in the parking lot; it was such a tease, he knew they still had about forty-five minutes of the class left, and he was mentally counting the seconds down. Fridays meant he had to work for a few hours, but eventually returned home to call Kyle and invite him over for their usual Friday night movies and video games. Sometimes Kenny came, but tonight he said he was 'busy with Butters,' whatever that meant. Butters at lunch had earlier mentioned that he wanted to bake cupcakes and maybe some cinnamon rolls. Kenny never got any baked goods at home, and Butters was very, very good at baking, so Stan didn't entirely blame him for preferring to hang out with Butters that evening. According to Cartman, that was code for fucking, but both Stan and Kyle scoffed when he said so.

"Haven't you figured out by now that means Kenny's fucking his butthole?"

"Seriously, please shut the fuck up, I don't want to think about Butters' butthole while I'm eating." Kyle had said, while he bit into his cucumber and lettuce sandwich (part of Sheila's new diet plan), all the while glaring at Cartman. The crunch was enough to make the bite appear threatening, but Cartman didn't look intimidated. He never did.

"Well, I'm just saying—"He started.

"Well, stop." Stan had replied, looking up from his tray at him with his brows raised. "Butters wouldn't want you talking about his ass, so don't. Or we'll talk about how gaping yours is." He told him, grinning at Kyle after Cartman had flushed and looked back to his baggy full of Chex Mix.

Thinking of that conversation now, Kyle's cheeks inflated while he swallowed his laughter. If he burst out into laughter, Mrs. Crabbe would take his test away and slap a fat, red zero on it, and God knew he needed the grade. But Stan was continuously looking up at him and pulling stupid faces, and it was tough to keep his composure when he knew Stan could be doing an impression of Principal Victoria at any second, if he wanted. It was always the voice and accent combination, with his face, which he pulled back to eliminate his neck, that always made him laugh until he was close to tears. If he pulled that shit now, Kyle swore on every Greek, Latin, and every other God he could remember, that he would beat the ever-loving shit out of him as soon as they got home.

Every time Stan looked up at him, Kyle felt his heart surge with slight panic, but also with the butterflies that always came when he and Stan were close at night, pressed close, until they could hear each other's breaths: Stan's wheezing and Kyle's snoring. Stan, in return, noticed this little pause, and grinned broadly, and then looked back down at his test in confusion. He'd only answered six questions, and the test had thirteen total.

"You have half an hour left." Said Mrs. Crabbe in her croaking voice. She looked at Stan while she said this, and he, in turn, waved and grinned, then went back to his test.

In a hurry, he scribbled down answers he thought may have been write. How was he supposed to know how to factor 'x2+12x+36'? And why the fuck did it matter, anyways? How would this ever help him in life? Would it help him account for data, or what? If there was no use to it later in life, what the fuck was even the point of learning it? Whatever, this wasn't as important as pissing Kyle off, or getting him to laugh. Grinning again, he kicked his ankle under the table, and when he looked up, he pulled his face back into his neck, the ripples of his chin coming in the hundreds—he swore it.

Kyle looked up at first with a glare, and then pressed his lips together, until they were white. Finally, when he breathed through his nose, nostrils practically spreading to the size of grapes, he looked back down to his test and began scribbling again. Then, all at once, three things happened to disrupt this flow.

A kid in the hall, very like Kenny, made the sound of throwing up while yelling, which made every head in the class lift up and look around. Mrs. Crabbe looked particularly frustrated, and several kids giggled quietly, brows furrowed while they looked to their friends for an answer to what had just occurred outside of their classroom. When no explanation came from anyone, everyone ducked their heads from the gaze of Crabbe, and went back to their head. In that very moment, Stan thought of the song "Look Down" from Les Misèrables and snickered silently to himself; it certainly was true, they'd always be a slave to Crabbe.

"Fifteen minutes."

Just after she finished that statement, Stan burped so loudly it startled him and Kyle, before Kyle finally, finally burst out into laughter. Beautiful, glorious laughter, that only made Stan laugh, until both of them were putting their heads down to laugh against their table, their shoulders shaking with laughter while they scrunched their faces against the plastic-wood surface of the table, the scent of cheap cleaner filling their nostrils while they tried to control themselves. Kyle eventually put his arms down and his head on his arms, trying to shut up, but the laughs kept forcing themselves out of his mouth.

To Stan's surprise, when he looked up, he saw that Mrs. Crabbe was only glaring at them, but not making any attempts at all to get up and confiscate their tests, which came as a great relief to Stan. In ten minutes, he managed to finish his test, and took Kyle's up to the front of the room for him, placing them down in front of Crabbe with a sheepish grin. She just looked at him, unimpressed and irritated, but said nothing to him, accepting their tests, while Kyle still stifled giggles in the corner of the room while he got his bag packed, and ready to go.


End file.
